Grace surveyed the mayors at this landing and noticed that most hadn’t been here last time. Some were older, grayer heads, but many were younger and less averse to risk. The politicians were gone. Those who stood here knew their lives were on the line. Glen had picked Grace up that morning and sent her back to change out of her clingy red dress. “Something frumpy,” he ordered. She wore a green affair with no waist, but doubted it would keep her alive if the new Leader wanted her dead.
The Roughrider Command Staff was there, with an honor guard. Grace hadn’t known Alkalurops had a flag. The mercs stood well off to the right, out of the line of fire in case someone wanted to mow down the mayors. Unlike the mayors, they did not talk among themselves, but stood stiffly at what Grace had come to recognize as “parade rest.” Knowing she shouldn’t, Grace ambled over to where Hanson stood, face-forward and alone in front of his troops. It was wicked to talk to a man under those circumstances, but Ma always said Grace had no sense of grace in social situations.
“You enjoying our fine planet?” she asked.
“It stinks,” Hanson said through unmoving teeth. “I understand we may get tornadoes soon. Maybe even a hurricane.”
“Hurricanes are usually later in the year,” Grace said. “You ought to study our planet more.”
“I’m taking a quick course in its military history,” the Major said. “Have you heard anything about made in the mist, or maybe the Maid in the Mist?”
“I thought you had intelligence specialists to find out things like that,” Grace said.
“Intelligence tells me they’ve heard that phrase several times, but I can’t seem to find it in the planet’s history records on the Net.”
So someone had thought ahead and taken that section down. “Maybe you should talk to our elderly, who remember the old songs or stories that never made it into the big Net.”
“Or I might find something in backups if it was only recently taken down.” He faced forward, but his eyes followed her.
“Might,” Grace said as the sonic boom of the approaching DropShip shook the building. “I’d better get back to my place.”
Now his head turned, and his eyes locked on hers. “Grace, I want my people back.”
Grace knew she should ignore the demand. She didn’t actually “know” about anything outside Falkirk. Still, Hanson couldn’t be ignored. Grace leaned close to the Major’s ear. “Your martial law says, ‘Do not kill mercs.’ You have not harmed my people. We have not harmed your people, and we will not harm them if the choice is left to us.”
Grace turned and started walking back to her place. Glen stepped out of line as she went by. “What was that all about?”
“He doesn’t want his people harmed.”
“Of course we won’t hurt his people. We’re not crazy!”
“He doesn’t know that!” Talk ended as the DropShip settled into its cradle and the terminal shivered. Grace hurried to her place among minor mayors doing their best to look harmless.
The sounds of a cooling lander were followed by loud noises, crashing sounds, shouts and curses. The mayors’ quiet gave way to low chatter as they guessed about each loud noise. The occasion had all the suspense of Christmas with none of the joy. Still, talk relieved the tension. Grace glanced at the mercs; there were whispers among them.
Twenty black gun trucks roared out of Concourse A, withSPECIAL POLICE and a stylized vulture painted in red on them. Or maybe it was an eagle. The 4x4s circled the mayors and mercs, machine guns leveled, then came to a ragged halt. Four or five machine-pistol-armed men in black dismounted and leaned against the jeeps, leering at the mayors.
The unmistakable clomp, clomp of heavy BattleMechs shook the terminal. More gun trucks drove down the walkway of Concourse A. BattleMechs stomped beside them on the heavy-equipment road. As the trucks gunned in, one BattleMech stopped, took two steps and climbed onto the floor of the terminal. The ceiling was just high enough for the BattleMech as it began a slow, menacing tread toward the mayors.
“That’s a seventy-five-ton Ryoken II!” a merc gasped.
“At ease in ranks,” the Major whispered through drawn lips.
A few mayors took a step back. Beside them, others gently pulled them back into ranks. “Nobody runs,” came from somewhere.
“We’re all in this together,” another whispered.
Grace gritted her teeth and examined the ’Mech closely. The cockpit was surrounded by missile launchers. Four autocannons all seemed aimed at her. The fists on the thing could smash her flat. Something behind the hands looked like meat cleavers. Mouth dry, Grace focused on keeping her feet in neutral. I will not run. Everyone else can. I cannot.
No one ran.
“Isn’t that the Legate’s Ryoken?” someone whispered.
“His wasn’t painted red and black.”
“Yeah, but that dent in the left cooler. Remember two years back when that trainee, what’s-his-name, backed a truck into it?”
“Shut up,” came back from Glen. Not as elegant as Hanson’s “At ease,” but effective at getting the civilians quiet. But if this was the Legate’s ’Mech, how had it gotten off-planet? Was that why Santorini showed up when Grace had chased that poor steward? If she’d looked in the right place, would she have found a Ryoken? More evidence that Santorini had the blood of Alkalurops’ two murdered planetary leaders on his hands.
Behind the Ryoken came a Jupiter and a Legionnaire in black and red. The terminal shook with each step they took. One mayor whispered, “This building wasn’t made for those things. If they aren’t careful, they’ll bring the place down.” But the ’Mechs spread out, distributed their weight, and the terminal shivered less. Other black-and-red BattleMechs and ’Mech MODs came down the heavy-equipment road but stayed on it, heading outside.
The Ryoken turned to face the mayors. It tried three times, like a new driver trying to parallel park a rig. There were snickers among the small-town mayors who spotted the problem.
Then the room grew silent. Even the gun truck drivers quit revving their engines.
The silence was broken only when the Ryoken’s cockpit opened to show Alfred Santorini in a jet-black uniform with silver piping. There was another long pause as he glowered down at them and they looked up at him. Grace froze her face in the blankest expression she’d worn since birth.
“People of Alkalurops,” Santorini began. “You turned down my reasonable proposal to keep you safe from marauders and raiders. Now I’ve shown you how easy it is to pick off a planet like yours in these harsh times. Do not expect me to repeat my offer. I do not come to help you. This time I come as your conqueror.” That brought a ragged cheer from the gun trucks.
Santorini leaned forward. “Here are my terms. Martial law will continue. Failure to comply with any and all of my legal regulations will result in summary execution.” There was the slightest movement among the mercs. Their posted martial law covered some minor stuff. Would the rules of war allow them to shoot people for such infractions?
“Second, to support the security I now bring you, all sales will immediately include a thirty percent tax.”
“What?” “That’s outrageous!” “That’ll mess up the economy,” was whispered among the mayors.
“In order to provide an immediate source of operating funds for my administration, I am levying a twenty percent tax on all lands and buildings based upon their latest sales value. Such taxes will be paid within the week.”